The Chronicles of Chef Dragonborn
by Gumby1011
Summary: There are some destined for greatness. Whether they are mighty warriors, skilled mages, or cunning thieves, they adapt to adversity and display their knack for. But not everybody wants to be a hero. While destiny inspires many, there are a select few it must drag, kicking and screaming, to fulfill their roles. Chef Garcon LeManifique is one such man.
1. The Helgen Incident

17th of Last Seed, 4E 201-

This is quite possibly one of the worst days I've ever had. When I awoke, I realized that my little run-in with the Cyrodilian arm of the Thieves Guild was NOT some far-fetched dream. That was the first bad thing in a chain of bad things that happened to me today.

As in my previous entry, I planned on sneaking across the border back into my homeland, Skyrim. The Thieves Guid presence there had dwindled considerably, and I thought I could work my way to some semblance of normalcy. These things happen in an artist's life from time to time, you know how it goes. Anyways, I think I'm about to make it across the border when I get jumped by a man in Imperial armor! I damn near bolted then and there, but he tackled me to the ground and bound my hands. Burly bastard chucked me in a wagon along with two Stormcloaks and a horse thief, like I was some sort of common criminal!

... Which, I guess I WAS for trying to emigrate without filing the proper papers with Cyrodil customs, but SERIOUSLY?

Anyways, they start carting us off for what seemed like an eternity. And when we finally get to our destination (which turned out to be Helgen) guess what cheery scene awaited us: Guards, a priestess, and a chopping block...

"Hey, Garcon, welcome home Garcon, say, mind if we KILL YOU?"

They took down my name. The man writing the list seemed sorry for me. Maybe he could tell I wasn't guilty somehow? Anyways... I was second on the block. It.. It was... The man who'd gone before me: his head was still in the basket! I could smell the blood on the block! I... I threw up. So much for true Nords dying with dignity. But as the axeman raised his weapon, this big black spiky THING crashed down on top of the tower behind him! The shockwave sent him crashing to the ground, and for a moment I thought I was saved! But then...

It looked at me. It looked straight at me. It had fire in it's eyes, I swear to the nine! It... it was a dragon. It roared to the heavens, and the heavens roared back. They spat fire down upon the town, and I bolted for a nearby tower. I managed to get inside, just moments before the dragon tore a chunk out of the floor above us. I was able to jump into a building through a hole that had been burned through the roof. I used the building for cover, until I'd heard a voice:

"Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way!"

It was the guard from earlier. The one that had taken down my name. Talos bless him, he was able to lead me through that burning wreckage and into the keep. I... I was shocked. There were bodies everywhere. As we went through the town, I mean. Men's bodies were were burning, crushed, bit clean in two. Nothing could stop that beast!

Anyways, once we were inside the guard untied my hands. He introduced himself, went by the name of Hadvar. Bless the lad. we went deeper into the keep, to fine the emergency exit deep below. Along the way, we rand into some of those Stormcloaks, and they ATTACKED US! A thrice damned DRAGON was burning the town down around us, and they attacked US! I lost it. I started screaming at them, and they turned and ran when they saw Dad's old flame spell prepared in my hands, but I... burned them. I burned them both. I burned them until they stopped moving. Until they stopped screaming. Hadvar looked like he was both startled and impressed, but I just left the room as soon as I could.

There were a few more Stormcloaks in the storeroom. We disposed of them. I was able to get my hands on some cast-iron pots, some wooden plates, a bit of silverware, a ladle, a kettle, and I even grabbed some ingredients too. So at least I'll still be able to ply my trade. There were some potions too, but... blegh. Those things are just nasty. I let Hadvar take them. We managed to get further through the keep, and I'm pretty certain that my mind smooshed all of it together into one big blur. There were frostbite spiders and a bear, I think.

Anyways, Hadvar guided me to his hometown, Riverwood. I was able to snag some of the Salmon jumping in a nearby river with a flames spell, and I smoked them for Hadvar's family after we arrived. It was a big hit with the family. Which is good, because I'm fairly certain I cleaned them out for ingredients after that. I forgot how easy it was to get fresh produce here in Skyrim. Makes since, there's farms everywhere up here!

I was exhausted. But, somehow it was only noon when we finished the fish. Hadvar's sent me out to Whiterun to get additional defenses for Riverwood. Makes sense, considering they don't even have a wall there. I ran down the road, made it to Whiterun without much incident. Except for that wolf that attacked me. I torched it's fur and slit it's throat with surprising ease. I... I should probably keep an eye on that.

I helped some nearby farms with the harvest. I kept some of the vegetables instead of getting paid in gold. I forgot how huge Skyrim potatoes are! Just recently, right at sun-down, I reached this tavern in the town. I didn't have a septim to my name, but I was able to earn a night's stay in the kitchen. Oh, and this little beggar girl who'd asked me for some money out on the street wandered in at some point. Gave her a bowl of vegetable stew. Poor thing.

Anyways, I'm barely keeping my eyes open now, writing this. I need a decent night's rest. Gods willing, in the morning I'll be able to find a way to buy a carriage ride to Solitude, where I can get some decent clothing. Maybe if I try my hand at hunting? nobody would mind if the pelts were a little singed, right?...

There I go with talking about killing things again... not the best of signs. Guess Mom wasn't ALL wrong... that's something, I guess?

I hear they have chef's uniforms at the clothing shop there. One can only hope. I'm still in my rags from when I tried to jump the border. Well, I had come here looking for a fresh start. Maybe this one's just a little TOO fresh.

OH! I almost forgot! Since my old journal is with all the other things the Imperials confiscated, this new, blank one I grabbed at the Riverwood Trader needs a formal introduction:

Greetings! My name is Garcon LeManifique. I'm a twenty-five year old aspiring chef. I am the son of a screaming harpy of a Nord she-soldier and a humble, Imperial mage. I take after my mother's side with my looks and temper, but I've always favored my father's cooking. I have returned to the place of my birth, Skyrim, in hopes of finally being able to settle down and start carving a niche for myself in the culinary world. And it looks like I'm going to have to carve out that niche with my bare hands. Since you're reading this, you're obviously the lucky bard or scribe I selected to write my song/biography after I finally made it big. Congratulations! I trust you'll read over these journals with the utmost care, and get the first manuscripts to me promptly. You've just finished the first pages of a success story surely greater than anything I can picture from this shabby inn bed, this cold night.

After all, destiny always finds those chosen for greatness!

-Garcon LeManifique.


	2. Of Creature Comforts and Severed Heads

18th of Last Seed, 4E 201-

You know, it's not until you lose them all that one gains true appreciation for the simple things in life. I got up this morning and immediately set out for Jarl Balgruf's palace, Dragonsreach. I managed to get in with no major incident, apparently the guard standing watch over the palace was the same one I'd gone past to get in the city. I think. I don't know, it's hard to tell.

Walking into the Jarl's palace was one of the most intimidating experiences I've ever had. Mainly because seconds after entering a Dunmer in leather armor drew a sword and approached me. I tried the whole "hide behind a column" thing, but yeah, it wasn't too effective. She practically had me recite me message to Balgruf a swordpoint. Then the man tossed a suit of leather armor at me and IMMEDIATELY tried to convince me to go into some rank, skeever infested hole in the ground to help find some "dragon's stone."

I'm a chef, not an archaeologist. It just goes to show: Even in Skyrim, a well-built Nord can't walk three steps without somebody mistaking them for a sell-sword.

I pawned the armor, and used the gold to buy a carriage ride to Solitude. The ride ate up most of the rest of my day: I was only able to get to the clothing shop fifteen minutes before closing, and I had to go past a public execution to do so!

Talos, what is with this country and public executions? Anyways, I only had enough money to get a single outfit out of the snooty Altmer that ran the place. I opted for my professional chef's outfit and a sturdy pair of boots. After all, no man should enter a kitchen without the proper attire, and I'm proud to wear the hat and garb of my profession wherever I may wander! And by the Nine, does it feel good to wear actual clothing again!

I hear Falkreath has a decent honey harvest coming up, and a vacant plot of land I may be able to eke a garden out of, so I headed south, not having enough money to pay for another carriage ride, nor the patience to hear "Ragnar the Red" sung to me for the umpteenth time. I'm currently sitting in the Four Shields Inn in Dragonsbridge, a small town just south of Solitude. I decided it was time to stop when I saw I spectral, headless knight on a ghostly horse.

Maybe it's NOT public execution so much as an affinity for decapitation in general? I dunno. Until next time, I guess!

-Garcon LeManifique.


	3. Land of Hostility

19th of Last Seed, 4E 201-

This land is a lot more violent then I remembered. True, I was nine when father finally graduated and we relocated to Cyrodil, but there's NO WAY I could have missed this much bloodshed!

I made fairly decent time to Falkreath, made it there by around an hour into the afternoon. Which in retrospect is kind of impressive, as I has to ward off something like three bandit attacks and two wolf attacks along the way. On the up-side though, I'm getting much better at stabbing magically burning things!

... That's an upside. This country's fricking bloodthirsty, I tell you!

So I asked around looking for some honey, and lo and behold the only people who ever collect it are the hunters that live in the woods! So I went out to find one, but instead I ran into this wierd tree-person THING that, like every other strange thing I encountered today, immediately tried to kill me. They're called Spriggans, apparently.

But, I can always make my own beekeeping setup after I get hold of my land, right? So after dashing back to town and removing all the stingers and splinters from by face and ass, I went to see the Jarl. Who looks MAYBE three years older than me and was this super-snobby twat. I asked him about the piece of land on the hill, and he told me I had to "prove myself" by trekking all the way to frigging RIFTEN to grab some black-briar mead. I'd normally just grab some from the local tavern and spice it back to peak freshness, but this sickly sweet, "Honningbrew Mead" garbage was all they carried!

To make matters worse, Falkreath doesn't even have a proper carriage driver! I had to go all the way back to Whiterun to grab one, but I got... kind of incredibly lost. It started getting late, and I've got everything trying to kill me in the DAYTIME! I wasn't about to go roughing it! So... I went up to this fort. It looked old, but I had seen people moving about in it. Unfortunately, "people" turned out to be bandits. Cripes, the Dragons's got the army so out of whack that they were losing bases to frigging bandits!

I must've racked up, like, at LEAST ten counts of lethal self-defense with mage-fire and cutlery. And I gotta admit... whether through adaptation or over-exposure, I'm surprisingly okay with that. I mean, I think it can be objectively said that the bandits here are pretty much wild animals, and all the wild animals here want me, and everyone else, dead. I'm fairly certain I did the world a service really. OH! And I managed to lift a butt-ton of money along with a firebolt tome and an oakflesh tome off of one of the mage bandits.

Which reminds me, since when have Bandits had mages?

Strange times we live in. At least the Bandit Chief had good taste in soft, warm furs for his bed.

-Garcon LeManifique.


	4. Cultural Diffusion

20th of last seed, 4E 201-

Is it just the societal norm for people to kill bandits here? Seriously, do bandits just spring out of the earth fully-fucking-formed and ready to pillage towns? Because that's the general impression I'm getting these days. The bastards are EVERYWHERE!

Oh, but aside from the same-old-same, I helped to slay a sabre-cat today. A couple of the Companions were fighting it, and I set it on fire. I mean, why break a streak, right? They seemed like they appreciated the help, and actually helped me find my way back to Whiterun. I went to Belethor's general goods to pawn off the various goodies I'd looted from the bandits, and picked up a copy of the Gourmet's latest recipe book: Unusual Taste. Then I went straight to the Bannered Mare to give the new recipes a test-drive. Gotta keep the important skills sharp, you know! The Sunlight Souffle was a big hit, and the innkeeper said anytime I felt like it I could do a freelance dinner service for them. It's good to have a large test sample, so that's good. While I was there, it turned out they sold Black-Briar mead, even!

So I grabbed a bottle for his royal high-and-mightyness and brought it back to the peak of freshness. I made sure to save some of the souffle and give it to Lucia. Oh, Lucia's that beggar girl I mentioned earlier. She's just the sweetest little thing. It turns out her parents died in a bandit attack (big fucking surprise there) and her aunt and uncle kicked her out of her own parent's farm!... You know, I really should learn to keep this temper under control if this place is gonna force me to be so good at murder.

So, I caught a carriage (I wouldn't mind Rognar the Red if the word "Rorikstead" didn't remind me of that damned horse thief and brought the mead back to the Jarling of Falkreath. And the bastard took one look at me and tasked me with-

...Wait for it...

Killing ANOTHER fort-full of bandits! I mean FUCK ME, I know bloodstains are hard to get out of a white chef's uniform, but how does everybody know it's not from, like, slaughtering goats and chickens or something!? I could be a butcher for all they know!

So anyways, I'm holed up in the local tavern. I've worked out a way to cast the ol' flames spell while only using half the magicka, so hopefully I'll be able to cook my way through the fort without any major trouble. Aside from the crushing guilt rapidly accumulating on my soul, that is.

I'm never gonna get the smell of boiling blood and burning hair entirely out of my nostrils before I die. Dear scribe, please leave as much of this out of your account as is possible while remaining relevant to my life.

-Garcon LeManifique


	5. Still Just a Chef, Though

21st of Last Seed, 4E, 201

You know? Maybe this country and it's murders aren't that bad. Wait, that came out wrong, of COURSE the murders are still BAD, but it turns out its not uncommon for jarls to send mercenaries to purge an abandoned fort of the more unsavory kind of free-loaders. I'm NOT a mercenary and intend to leave this barbaric source of income as far behind me as quick as I can, mind you, but there's no denying a certain... simplicity to it. No rival restaurants to worry about, no critics you can't immediately stab, no tedious accounting for the finances. Just you, your coinpurse, your dagger and your spells.

Mother would be proud. But alas, I digress.

I awoke bright and early this morning and set out for Red Peak Refuge, asking a guard for directions. Not far down the road did I come across an abandoned fort that was positively CRAWLING with Orcs (sorry, Orsimer) dressed in the traditional bandit fur and hides. They were no real trouble (thanks to the ever-handy oakflesh spell and my light footwork).

Here's the thing, though: The fort was LOADED with all mannerisms of freshly caught game! They had goat legs, rabbit haunches, pheasant breasts, venison cuts, beef flanks, they even had a slab or two of horker meat! (although, how they got ahold of THAT so far from the coast remains a mystery.) I noticed an odd grating while looking for the chief's room: an orange-colored metal that just looked alien to me. It had a keyhole, so I made a mental note to keep an eye out for anything.

So I got to the chief's room and roasted him. As always, he was tougher than the rest, but as every chef knows: Tough meats cook the longest. I should have maybe mentioned earlier that I've been picking up the Septims off of the bandit's I've been cleaning. No good for the economy if that gold stayed out of the system! I must have a good seven-hundred septims built up by now.

Found a key on the Chief. It let me open the orange grate, and there was this odd button inside that opened up a HUGE vault! Inside I found tons more gold and a cartload of obvious tripwire traps that shot these weird little dart-things. In the back of the vault were a bunch of shards of a dagger-blade. why they were in such an important spot remains a mystery, but I took them with the intentions of finding out. My current knife is growing blunt, anyways.

On my way out I was accosted by a novice Altmer necromancer who immediately tried to kill me. Typical. After I showed him why nobody uses ice spells on a Nord, I took a read through his journal. Turns out I'd just cleared out CRACKTUSK KEEP.

And nobody bothered to tell me there were multiple bandit-infested holes on this road WHY?

So, full of piss and vinegar (as I'm fairly certain was my right by now) I stormed off to find my ACTUAL target, which was much less elaborate than the first fort, and did what I was getting paid to do. That said, there's just so much gold lying around in these bandit's camps, no WONDER Falkreath can't afford a proper palace! Might be why Sigmund is so BLEEDIN' CHEAP, too. I get back to the longhouse, and regale the jarl of my dashing deeds, yet he refused to give me a bonus for taking care of the orcs!... On second thought, maybe those orcs had cut a deal with him as well?

Ah. That would explain that, wouldn't it?

So he gave me the right to buy land in Falkreath, but he said I'd have to build the house out of my own pocket! And the land itself cost 5000 SEPTIMS! I could get my hands on that nice little cottage for sale in Whiterun for that much money! But alas, the artist must often suffer for his craft. At the very least, when I've finished, I'll have a cookery built to the finest specifications! Let it never be said that I was not a man willing to suffer for the betterment of his craft.

So that brings me to my next goal: Bleak Falls Barrow. Now I know, I know, I said I'm not an archaeologist, but I've been ruthlessly murdering cutthroat brigands for the last two days. I'm fairly certain that I should be able to handle a few skeevers and bats by now. Likewise, I earned no less than 500 septims today, not including the profits made from pawning all those weapons, gemstones, and pelts I recovered from the orcs. Who knows how much the jarl of an ACTUAL hold with an ACTUAL castle will pay for the (apparently) legendary Dragonstone! On top of that, one of the shopkeepers in town had a break-in, where bandits (gasp!) nabbed a solid gold claw, which had also been taken to the barrow. He's offering money for its safe return. It turns out Mother and Father weren't kidding when they said Skyrim has a way of forging warriors!

I'm writing this now from Hadvar's family's cottage in Riverwood. They were astounded to see me in a chef's uniform, and ESPECIALLY surprised to see me holding a rucksack bulging with food and ingredients! To compensate for my rather desperate commandeering of their pantry during my last visit, I made them a feast fit for a jarl, if I do say so myself! The horker stew and steamed mudcrab legs in particular were quite the hit, and I even left excess ingredients to restock their cupboards from my travels.

I daresay I've secured my first foothold here in Skyrim's dining world.

Tomorrow I'll retrieve the claw and the stone. Godswilling I'll be able to accrue the money for my little plot of land without much incident.

-Garcon LeManifique


	6. Absolutley, Positively not Special

22nd of Last Seed, 4E, 201

Force. One of the primary compelling forces of the universe. Through it, all things are propelled into motion, and all things are ground to a halt. Force. It is the manifestation of one's will. Through it, we take things, break things, and make things. Force. It is the outward expression of ambition. Through it, we bend the world to our will. Force.

... don't know why, but I feel much better having written that. Mind is much clearer now.

Anyways... a lot happened today. Let's start with the tomb. lovely, lovely tomb, infested with all mannerisms of bandits, arm-long skeevers and a horse-tall spider. Oh, and the corpses. Stinky, smelly, mummified corpses that ROSE FROM THE DEAD TO TRY AND CUT ME UP WITH CLAYMORES AND SHIT!

FUCK!

... so, anyways, I grabbed the golden claw from this one bandit. How and why are of no consequence. It turns out those old nordic puzzle doors weren't puzzles at all! They were a huge version of some sort of hybrid padlock and combination lock, although why they bothered with that is beyond me, since the key also had the combination stamped right into it. I'd send dad a letter on it, but he was so intent on finding a solution when I was a wee lad, I'm fairly certain he'd have a stroke if I told him now.

Towards the back of the ruins, the toughest out of all of the dead things was in this huge chamber with an ornate chest that had a bunch of high-end magical stuff that I grabbed. Those bandits were right about one thing: Skyrim marketplaces just can't get enough o' them sweet, sweet enchantments! The dragonstone was also crammed into the dead-thing-king's chest cavity. Which was pleasant. Only puked till I ran out of stomach contents.

There was also this wall with odd, chicken-scratch looking writing. I just knew that one of the words on it said "force." Only, it also sounded like "fus." I have no idea how I knew that, though. The tomb had a back exit for some reason. Seems awfully convenient for tomb robbers, but hey, no skin off my nose! I came out facing some lake, so I fished up some salmon while I was there and walked down the bank, which went right to the road to Riverwood. I guessed right, Mr. Valerius the shopkeeper was very generous in his payment for the returned claw.

I went to Whiterun after I pawned my excess loot. I have to say, this rucksack of mine is growing rather heavy. Had a hearty lunch and made sure to save some for poor Lucia. She's so darn thin, it just isn't right, I say! Anyways, got the stone to Farengar, who was talking about a bunch of stuff I didn't quite pay attention to while talking to this person in a hood and leather armor.

I was about to grab some spells from the mage, when that psychotic Dunmer burst in to tell us that a dragon was spotted flying outside the city. I promptly hid myself in an empty wardrobe. After being forced out of my sanctuary at swordpoint, they dragged me to the jarl, who was being regaled by a guard on how ABSOLUTELY FUCKING TERRIFYING dragons were. Then the big cheese turns to my and says "You. You survived Helgen. You have more experience with dragons that anyone else!"

And I say "Fuuuuuuuuck that!" But, that thrice-damned Dunmer lead me out of the city on a super-retarded mission to slay the dragon at the head of a division of guards. Even if I had tried to escape once we left the city walls, I couldn't outrun that many arrows. We marched to this DELIGHTFULLY charred ruin of a watchtower. But, thank the nine, the dragon was nowhere to be seen. Which lasted for all of ten seconds. So the scaly bastard swooped in like a... well, like a dragon, and immediately started forcing me to relive Helgen. But my hands were unbound. He could go eat a dick.

The guards poured arrows into the beast, and I pegged it with a few firebolts to give it that extra push. The bastard decided it wanted me dead, the instant I ran out of magicka. it fixated on me, for some reason, which gave the guards an opening to drown the beast in with even more arrows. Eventually, it started to slow, and I gathered up enough magicka to fire a final firebolt out of spite. The beast fell to the ground.

Needless to say, the guards were super pumped. High-fives, congratulations, the Dunmer even complemented their shooting. Then it happened. I scooted closer to the dragon, fixing to grab a scrap or two of it. I couldn't help it! I was curious: What does dragon meat taste like? But before I could grab a slab, the dragon started to... burn. It burned from the inside. As it's body burned away, some sort of white light some from it, directly on me. It really freaked everybody out, and the Dragon was reduced to nothing more than a pile of bones and a few scraps of scales.

And I heard it. I heard force. I knew all about it, what it meant, from where it stemmed, what truly occured when it was used. Everything. The words running in my head were as irritating as anything I'd ever experienced. and on top of that, suddenly WE didn't kill the dragon. It was explicitly ME that had killed the dragon. Those hill-billy locals were so irritating, I just wanted to scream. To yell. To shout at them how stupid they were acting, that it could very well have been just a part of the dragon's death. I'm not special. Not except for how extraordinary of a cook I am. There were plenty of others that could have done what I did, and I wanted to tell them, and tell them so they could hear me over the voice in my head!

I did pretty much the opposite of that.

I screamed the ord I'd seen earlier that day. Fus. I don't know why, but the word carried force. Like a tangible, physical force. It almost knocked a guard over. I... I don't know how I did that. I grow weary, but there's one last thing that needs documenting: On the way back to the city, there was a noise. It was louder than anything I'd ever heard. It shook the earth. It nearly deafened me. It sounded like voices. Old voices. And despite their volume, their tone made it seem they were whispering.

I swear, I'll figure this all out in the morning. At least I've gathered enough money to pay for half the land. As soon as I get enough, I'm leaving this strange episode of my life behind me.

-Garcon LeManifique


End file.
